


North of Wednesday

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, First Time, M/M, SPN311
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-17
Updated: 2008-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to its incredible awesomeness, I'm expecting to read many, many codas to <i>Mystery Spot</i> between now and April 24th - and probably quite a lot of them after.  I'm maybe a little rusty at this, but anyway.  Here's mine!  =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	North of Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> A billion of thanks to torch and laura for cheerfully beta-reading. They are also incredibly awesome.

  
Sam's behind the wheel before he realizes he doesn't have the keys. Dean does. There should be another cheesy eighties song coming on any second, because it's like he wakes up again, without ever falling asleep. He _forgot_, and when Dean falls into the passenger seat with the slam of a door and an annoyed glare, it's all Sam can do not to grab him and hug him again. As it is, his hand is shaking when Dean drops the keys into it, and he fumbles at the ignition while Dean props a knee against the dash and slouches against the window. The car roars to life while Sam clutches at the steering wheel, trying to slow down his heart.

"Dude," Dean says, when they sit there for half a minute or so, just idling. Disgust rounds out the word, and Sam grins so hard he's sure his face will crack. This face is used to it, though; this face he used to live in _remembers_.

"Sorry." Sam lets himself turn and look at Dean, like a reward for one minute spent holding himself together. He laughs when Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Do you even know where we're going?"

"Not a clue." Sam lets go of the wheel, turns off the ignition, and rubs his hands against his jeans. His voice isn't as steady as he wants it to be. "Anyway, I think you better drive."

  


* * *

  


They go north; Dean doesn't say why, and Sam doesn't ask. They go straight up the coast. It's a risk Sam doesn't think they should take, but Dean's as eager to get away from Broward County as Sam is, and spidering north on back roads just wouldn't be fast enough. They don't stop for lunch, and seven hours and change gets them through Savannah. When Dean's stomach starts growling, they take the next exit into Hardeeville, South Carolina, a wide spot in the road where in another life, Sam once sent a bloodwraith back to the Pit.

_("One of the _Lawrence_ Winchesters?" was what it said just before Sam liquified it and poured it out over the earth. "I think I've met your brother.") _

Sam directs Dean down the main drag to a strip mall with a no-name burger place tucked between a Lowes and a Super Wal-Mart. There's no inconspicuous place to park a 1967 Impala, so they leave it gleaming in the late afternoon sun, like the answer to all Hendrickson's prayers. They eat french fries and cheeseburgers and pie for nearly an hour. It's been a day or a year since the last time Sam sat across a table from Dean, depending on who you ask. Dean talks, and Sam drinks it in, watches his hands move, his face.

When the check comes, Sam reaches for it out of habit, but Dean's quicker; he flicks it out from under Sam's hand and gives it a purposeful snap, eyeing Sam warningly over the top edge. He folds a twenty into the ticket and holds it up between two fingers, grinning smugly at Sam as their waiter cruises by and snags it. Sam snorts, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Dean leans back and lays his arm out along the back of the booth like he has in about a million diners before. He shakes his head and laughs. "Finish your pie."

Sam takes his time. It's the best pie in the whole fucking world.

  


* * *

  


They find a motel off the highway just outside of Fayetteville, and Sam walks Dean to the office to pay for the night and pick up a key. He pretends he's just tagging along, half a step behind and to the right, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. Scanning the parking lot to either side, in front and behind. He pushes into the room ahead of Dean and blocks the door until he's sure they're alone, then steps aside, carefully avoiding Dean's eyes.

"First shower," Dean says, and takes his shaving kit into the bathroom. Sam's whole body goes stiff and tight, and he's halfway to losing it when Dean turns around and stands in the lighted doorway, watching him.

He should say something. He tries. He _wants_ to. But all he can do is stare and shake and need until Dean's face goes soft and sad. With a nod Sam can barely see, Dean pushes the door open a little wider, and leaves it.

Sam sits down on the edge of the bed closest to the door, drops his head into his hands, and waits. After a while, his stomach settles down and his breathing evens out. By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom, hair in crazy spikes, a towel wrapped around his hips, Sam can pretend he's just waiting there for his turn. He showers faster than he ever has in his life, soap stinging his eyes as he shuts the water off and nearly trips stepping over the rim of the tub. He's still dripping when he comes out of the bathroom, barely five minutes after he went in.

He glances at Dean once, just to check, just to be sure, and immediately feels his cheeks go red and hot at the worry in his brother's eyes. He gets dressed without looking at Dean again. It's not that he doubts Dean can take care of himself; not really.

It's just that it's _Wednesday._

  


* * *

  


Dean calls out for pizza around nine-thirty, pays for it at half past ten, and they sit at the small round table by the window sucking it down. Sam's starving, like he hasn't eaten in days instead of hours, and Dean does a fair amount of damage himself. The TV's on, and Dean's watching something Sam doesn't recognize. Sam's watching Dean. When the food's gone, neither of them seems to want to move. Dean's sprawled in his chair, one arm hooked over the back, one stretched out along the table.

Sam's hand is on the table, too. Fingers splayed out flat, pressing against the surface to keep them still. He wants to reach out, but the part of him that's not buying any of this is scared he'll break if he reaches and finds nothing there. He needs Dean too much to take the risk.

He's still wanting when Dean's hand shifts closer and closes, tight and strong, around his own. Sam stops breathing. He's lost the knack of feeling anything but rage and fear and emptiness. This hurts, whatever it is, and it's so good it terrifies him. It can't be real.

"It's okay, Sam." Dean's not looking at him. He's looking at their hands. "When you came back..." He clears his throat. "You know, after. When."

"Dean." Sam's hand tightens. He can feel the heat of Dean's palm pressing against his own, Dean's grip as solid as iron. It's too much -- too much life flooding into the dead places inside him, waking him up too fast. "You don't have to --"

"I know." Dean's eyes come up to meet his. His voice is low and a little rough, but firm. "I know I don't. But you need to know. It's okay. I get it."

Sam nods. His eyes burn, and they're wet, and he knows Dean can see it, but he can't look away. "Okay," he says, and nods again.

Dean squeezes his hand once, hard enough to bruise, and lets go.

  


* * *

  


Sam watches himself in the mirror: washing his face, brushing his teeth. He's a few scars and a lot of road short of the Sam Winchester he was the last time he did this. He's not sure who he is, now. Not the guy Dean woke up next to this morning; not the guy he was when he went to bed last night.

He splashes water onto his face, and rubs it off with a towel. Behind him, out of sight, Dean's making way more noise than he needs to, getting ready for bed. Sam fills a glass with tap water and drinks it, rinses the glass, sets it down on the counter. He meets his own eyes in the mirror again, and pulls himself together. On his way out, he shuts off the light.

The TV is off, and all but one lamp, the one by Dean. He's propped against the headboard on the left side of the bed, humming, when Sam comes out. It's not Asia and it's not Huey Lewis, so Sam doesn't mind. He pulls off his t-shirt and goes to his bed, but his bag is on it, and Dean's bag, and a newspaper. A box of ammunition, a hunting knife, the green shirt Dean was wearing earlier. A wadded up pair of jeans, a sawed-off shotgun.

Dean's wearing a black t-shirt, blue boxers, and white athletic socks. Two spots of color sit high on his cheekbones, but he doesn't shy away from Sam's eyes.

"I said, I get it," Dean says, and jerks his head toward the other side of the bed.

Sam clears his throat. He's lost track of all the ways he loves Dean now, blurred the lines inside until the lines aren't really there. He's not surprised anymore by the gut-punch of _want_; he just really, really hopes he can speak around it.

"This is all so sudden," he says, and he's proud of himself when Dean rolls his eyes up at the ceiling.

"You snore," Dean says, "or fart, or even _think_ about kicking me, I will put your ass on the floor so fast it'll wonder where the rest of you went." But he yanks the covers down on the far side of the bed, and waits.

Sam climbs in. The sheets are scratchy and the blankets thin, but he can feel the dip on the other side that says Dean's there. He thinks that'll keep him warm enough. His heart feels too big for his chest, makes it hard to breathe deep. That's okay, too.

Dean turns out the light. It's 11:48, by the clock that sits on the night stand, red numbers glowing in the dark. The bed shifts as Dean slides down and settles.

"Just a few minutes," Sam says quietly. He doesn't mean to say it, but if it's going to happen, it's going to happen now. In the dark, where it could be any room, any town, any clock on any table. In the dark, where there could be photographs and newspaper clippings taped to the wall above the bed in stern right angles, edges trimmed sharp, mapping a hundred dead-end trails. He can feel the smooth places on his body where scars used to be; he wonders if they'll hurt when they rise up under his skin.

"I'm right here."

Dean's voice coming out of the darkness is like a memory, a hope. He called it up so many times in so many motel rooms, tried to wish it real. It is real, Sam tells himself -- tries to believe. His breath catches in his throat. "Dean."

"Jesus, Sam. What the hell happened to you?"

"You died." His voice breaks, and he hates that, and his face -- his face is fucking wet. He scrubs at it with the heels of his hands, staring up at the ceiling. He should feel older, tougher, but instead he's like a little kid again, alone in the dark. "You...you died a _lot_, Dean."

"Hey. I didn't. Not really. Not even once."

Sam nods furiously, the pillow bunching under his head, at the back of his neck. "I know." He drops his hands to his chest, curling his fingers into the blanket covering him. There are two lives in him, the one with Dean and the one without, and he can't tell which one is real, and he can't hold them both. "I know," he says again. "But the last time... it was Wednesday."

The mattress shifts, and then Dean's hand is on his arm, sliding down to his hand and tangling their fingers up together. Sam holds on, and turns on his side, facing Dean. He can see his brother's outline, silver in the light from the window. Over Dean's shoulder, he can see the red glow of the clock.

"It was Wednesday," Sam whispers, like a secret. "And I didn't wake up."

_"Sam."_

"It...was a long time. I got -- things got really bad."

Dean nods. "Okay. Come here. Shift over."

Sam doesn't argue. Dean rolls toward him and Sam climbs over him, lets Dean manhandle him onto his side, facing the clock. 11:55. Dean's arm closes around Sam's chest; he can feel Dean's heart beating against his back. His breath is a warm rush against Sam's ear, and Sam shivers with it, sensation prickling under his skin.

11:56, and Dean eases back and rests his forehead in the space between Sam's shoulder blades. He's solid, behind Sam and around him, muscle and skin and bone. Sam covers Dean's arms with his own, and holds on. 11:58.

"I thought I killed Bobby," Sam says suddenly, and he's shocked to feel a huff of laughter against his spine.

Dean's arms tighten around him. "Dude, you know _that_ shit wasn't real. I don't care how badass you think you were; there ain't no world where Sam Winchester takes down Bobby Singer on his own."

Sam grins, pressing his face into the pillow. Dean's not wrong.

"What time is it?"

"Eleven fifty-nine."

Dean shifts, props himself up on his elbow and Sam's back so he can see the clock over Sam's shoulder. "When do you start to believe I'm not some incredibly wise, infinitely kind, and unbearably attractive Trickster-induced hallucination?"

"Twelve-oh-one?"

"Okay. Turn over."

Sam's already done it before he says, "What?"

"Don't look at the clock. Look at me." Dean tugs at Sam's shoulder, pulls him closer; pulls Sam's arm around him, and draws him in. "Look at _me_, Sam."

Sam looks. Light from the window hits Dean's eyes and that's all Sam can see. It's all Sam _wants_ to see. He looks, and commits Dean to memory like this, right here, in his arms, in his bed, looking at Sam like he's everything in the world. He hopes that's what Dean sees looking back at him. Not just darkness. Please, God, let him be more than that now.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says. He's so close his breath fans warm across Sam's face. "I'm not leaving you. I'm not dying on you. I won't let that happen."

Sam nods, hands squeezing tight around Dean's shoulders. He wants more, closer; wants everything. "Don't, okay?"

"I won't. I promise."

"Just--" Sam shakes his head. There have been too many single rooms, too many dark and lonely roads, and he can't get past them, can't get _through_ them just by wanting to, just by wishing them gone. He drags Dean closer, presses over every inch of him, breathes Dean's breath and tastes Dean's sweat on his tongue.

"Dean." Sam stills, frozen; his mouth on his brother's skin. Over the line, too far, but Sam's dizzy with how much it fills him. His body shivers with want, more, and his tongue flicks out again, heat and taste flooding him.

Sam closes his eyes. Under his hands, Dean shifts, but he can't hide it; he's in as deep as Sam is, and he's shaking. Sam's shaking, too. Bone-deep, a current is running through him, a buzz where the broken pieces of him shift and line up against each other. He leans his forehead against Dean's and breathes deep, lungs filling up with warm air.

Dean moves; presses his face against Sam's, a raw, stubbled scrape. "Sam?"

Dean's hands fist in the sheet covering Sam's chest, twist and push, then slide against Sam's skin. His mouth opens and Sam takes it, breathes into it. Dean's body is warm and alive under his hands, his breath loud and ragged. Sam _needs_ that, every real-solid-tangible part of Dean, and everything else he has, too.

"Sam." Dean pulls back slow, eyes on Sam's lips. His voice is thick, rough and sweet, nothing Sam's ever heard before; new. "Jesus."

"I can't--" Sam's breath hitches. He forces his hands to relax, to hold instead of clutch. "I can't lose you again."

"You won't." Dean's hand curls around the back of Sam's neck, a tight, solid grip. "It's not going to happen."

"How can you know that?"

"I can see the clock from here." He smiles, sharp and certain, eyes never leaving Sam's. "Twelve-oh-five."

  


* * *

  


Sam sleeps himself out. It's the first real, deep, easy sleep he's had in a year or more, no nightmares and no dreams. He feels Dean wake up beside him, and burrows down deeper into his pillow; he feels Dean's hand slide through his hair, fingers scratching softly at his scalp, and smiles, and lets himself drift again. Later, he hears the television; later than that, Dean talking to someone on the phone. Nothing pulls him out of it till somebody knocks and the smell of hot food drifts over on a cool draft from the open door. He's sitting up and rubbing his eyes when Dean turns and sets a tray on the table by the window.

"Well," Dean drawls, "looks like I won't need the last of that dreamroot after all."

"Thank God." It would have been bad enough before; the thought of Dean poking around inside his head _now_ brings a shudder. Sam scrubs a hand over his face, and yawns so wide his jaw pops. "Is that breakfast?"

"A very late lunch." Dean drops into a chair and opens up a bag. "And I didn't get you any. Figured you planned to sleep out the demon war, catch up later on CNN."

Sam grunts, and wanders into the bathroom. His mouth tastes like crap, he stinks, and he needs to pee forever.

He showers, letting the hot water pound into him and wash away sleep and what's left of his grief. It's hard to hold onto with Dean talking back to the TV in the room outside, Dean's toothbrush in the cup next to his, Dean's dirty clothes in a ball by the bathroom door. He lets it go.

He stays in till the steam is thick enough to choke him, then dries off and tucks the towel around his waist. He has to wipe a dry circle into the mirror to brush his teeth and shave, then again when he's done, just to see who's there.

Still not a clue, but at least this guy is breathing.

He lets a cloud of steam out when he goes to get dressed, pulling on clothes he barely remembers. Jeans that don't fall off him, that blue t-shirt he used to like, with the little hole in the left sleeve and the bleach stain on the collar. When he's done, he sits down across from Dean and grabs the second bag, which Dean totally did get for him. He's finishing up the last dripping bite of his burger when he catches Dean watching him.

Sam wipes ketchup from the corner of his mouth, swallows, and leans back in his chair. "What?"

"You look good."

Heat creeps into Sam's face. "Uh, thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I mean, you look _better_, doofus. A little less _Night of the Living Dead._ I approve."

"Guess I needed my beauty sleep."

"Awww, Sammy, don't feel bad. Not your fault I got all the good genes." Sam wads up his napkin and fires it across the table; Dean ducks, and comes up shaking his head. "All the good reflexes, too," he says sadly, and slaps Sam on the shoulder on his way to the bed. Sam laughs; his clothes may take some getting used to, but this -- this, he remembers.

While Dean packs up, Sam clears their stuff out of the bathroom. They arm up together. Dean turns off the TV, Sam gets the light over the table, and they're done. He slides the strap of his bag up over his shoulder and looks at Dean. "Ready to hit the road?"

Dean stops in front of him, very close. He wraps a hand around the back of Sam's neck and pulls him down; his mouth is soft and hot and sweet. Sam tries to follow it when Dean steps back, just a second more, but he gets a hold on himself. He smiles, and Dean grins back at him, smug and heated: a sure thing for later, somewhere down the road.

At the front of the car, Dean stops, and dangles the keys from his finger. "Who's driving?"

"You are." Sam opens the passenger side door, and Dean spins the keys and snaps them back into his hand. "I'm still a little tired." He slides in, and Dean joins him, firing up the ignition.

"You can't possibly still be tired," Dean says. "You slept like Rip Van Winkle."

"Wednesday took a lot out of me." Sam sinks deeper into his seat, closes his eyes, and smiles. "I'm taking Thursday off."


End file.
